


Your Name Is Dave Strider...

by Dastri413



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Implied Childhood Trauma Of The Author, M/M, Psychological Warfare With The Reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-03-28 01:59:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13893843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dastri413/pseuds/Dastri413
Summary: ...and everything is just fine, how you like it being, I promise.





	1. Chapter 1

\-- tentacleTherapist  [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead  [TG] at 03:13 --

TT: Dave.  
TT: Dave?  
TT: I know you're there. Pesterchum is clearly showing everyone that you're online.  
TT: It's been weeks, Dave. This is ridiculous.  
TT: You can't just hide yourself away forever. This isn't like you.  
TG: haha

Even for an autumn day in Texas, it's still unseasonably warm. It's been a while, you admit, but you've been so busy the whole damn time - when people get to be too much for you, you can depend on the immutable fact that you'll always have some sick beats to produce. More than that, you've got a creative vision to fulfill, some radical musical stylings to bring to life from the ever-flowing river of genius that is your mind. Wouldn't it be an awesome surprise to leave your friends alone for a while and come back with the sweetest jams they've ever seen? Even your pals, musically oriented as they all are, wouldn't know what hit them when you graced them with your genius. Your jams are more than just noises made from your various machines, even more than what could be described as music, beyond anything of that sort. What you make is sheer unadulterated beauty, and one day you're going to put yourself out there and make a name for yourself. When God looks down upon His creation, there, right in the middle of it, is Your creation. This is the message that humanity gives back to the heavens. Angels will weep. And...

Wait.

No. No way.

What do you mean, I set the scene wrong?

Oh, right. Because it can't be the daytime if he's getting messages at 3am.

...

Had you considered that maybe, just maybe, I was trying to do something new, something innovative with this little piece of fiction so I could stand out? I'm not just screwing around here, I'm trying to write fucking literature. There's so much I could have done with that small hint, right there at the start, that I could have used later on in the story. If you want to develop your critical thinking skills by criticizing my fucking story, save it for your English classes, okay? Shakespeare made up words every other fucking sentence and he didn't get this level of shit from his readers. Whimsical motherfucker wrote most of his plays with ten syllables a line, just because he could. You want to see the Bard, go read about Gamzee or some shit, okay? And to think that you should be grateful for me writing this. Most pieces of media, let alone fanfictions, don't have anywhere near this level of author interaction. I defy you to name a single creator so brazen, so daring that they straight-up insult their readers. I gave you a chance, and you spat in my face. I hope you realize why people write their stories in second-person perspective. You want to be these characters, you want to put yourself in their shoes, you want to live that life. So when I give you a break by giving you something at least relatively wholesome, you'll fucking appreciate it from now on, won't you?

Some of you may be about to protest, and yes, I know, it isn't fair. On a first readthrough, it's unlikely that anyone picked up on that subtle dissonant detail. Still, there are some perceptive people out there. The ones with reading comprehension skills through the roof, who might call me out in their condescending ways. These people are pretentious assholes! If you're suffering right now, do not blame the author. It takes a lot of bravery to open up and actually write something for an audience on the internet. Hell, even opening up and showing something you've done that you like to one person is hard. That's okay. But if you see someone out there being a dick about something that looks like a mistake in the work, I encourage you to call those people out, because there's no reason to be that way. Tell them TG sent you.

I'm sorry that I have to put you through this, readers. I want my characters to be happy, and more than that, I want you to be happy. But I can't let you step into the happy shoes of that character from the first paragraph. That story can't exist in today's world. A few of y'all might get impatient waiting for the next chapter. And one or two might even notice that small little detail that the times didn't match up, and call me out for it. This story is written with those people in mind.

\-- tentacleTherapist  [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead  [TG] at 03:13 --

TT: Dave.  
TT: Dave?  
TT: I know you're there. Pesterchum is clearly showing everyone that you're online.  
TT: It's been weeks, Dave. This is ridiculous.  
TT: You can't just hide yourself away forever. This isn't like you.  
TG: haha

It's gone past three in the goddamn morning, and you're still awake. It's been a while, you admit, but you've needed the time off - when people get to be too much for you, and you can depend on the immutable fact that they always will, you don't have many other ways to cope other than just plain leaving altogether. You love your friends, but they can be a real handful. Wouldn't it be awesome if you were actually comfortable with talking to literally anyone about this sort of thing, and not waiting forever for them to ask you instead? The lights are still on in your room, and the open window lets in a chilling late-night autumnal breeze. It's not a big deal, it's not like you'd be cold if you even wanted to sleep. More often than not, you'll just take all the emotions you get late at night and throw them together into some piece of shit music that no one's ever going to listen to anyway. Yes, if you were going to express yourself by painting, you would be using mostly dark reds, because your jams are your art. And...

You look around your room. What's changed? It used to feel so much happier here. For one, John used to be here. Ever since he left, you don't really feel like you're in control of your life. To say you can't remember how long it's been would be a lie. You remember exactly when it happened, but you prefer to not think about it. As of such, you take your attention away from that subject to quickly reflect on how you used to deal with that sort of thing. Taking a cursory glance at your wrist, all appears well. No one would ever have to know about what happened on that matter, and no one should ever have to know either. Not that it's the best sign that you keep reflecting on all these negative things. How could you let all this happen to yourself? More importantly, where do you go from here? Are you about to find out?

Your name is Dave Strider.

Have fun.


	2. Chapter 2

TG: did you know sometimes i use apostrophes  
TG: page 1099 motherfuckers look it up  
TG: thats right im even literally a character now  
TG: because fuck you this is my story

Who would have thought, looking back on that summer romance that ended so quickly, that things would have turned out so regrettably for you now? That passionate, unyielding flame of love within you, that burns even to this day - how could something that felt so right end up becoming so horrifically wrong? You've never told anyone before now, and you're not sure you ever should. But maybe, just once, you can let your guard down, and give yourself heart and soul to someone else, someone who you consider to have earned that.

On second thoughts, you're Dave. Fuck that, keep dreaming.

Who does this Dave supposedly have a crush on, anyway? Karkat? John? Jade? What makes you happiest, reader, what can I do for you? No ill will towards you, I'm just sensitive about my stories. If you want a story where the Striders have a threesome with Crowbar, I can write that. It'll be forced as hell, but I'm not an author. I'm an artist. These characters, these lines, they are but brushstrokes. Together, these brushstrokes create a painting, something whole, greater than the sum of its parts. And if that painting just so happens to be a Texan sandwich with a fucking leprechaun in the middle, who are you to judge? My audience is out there. Somewhere. And they will appreciate this art, long after I'm gone.

You probably have several questions. Like, am I stalling for time? Am I just filling in the blanks with meaningless prose? Am I praying that no one points out the fact I haven't updated this promising-looking fanfic for over half a year? The answer to all of these is yes. But is this not what it means to be an artist of deftly woven fanfiction? Is it not much better to leave some things to the imagination of the reader? For several months at a time? THESE ARE THINGS THAT WEAKER BEINGS WOULD ADDRESS IN THE AUTHOR'S NOTES. I call this "interactivity". I can do this as stubbornly, and as shamelessly as I want, because after Homestuck, my readers will lap that shit up. Do you want another fucking songfic? I have the entire discography of the Emo Trinity within my grasp, and you are this close to feeling its wrath.

Anyway, where were we? Dave's bedroom, right? Wrong. It's winter, and Dave is, that is to say, you are, elsewhere. Winter is aesthetically pleasing, and I don't give a shit that I called it a summer romance. As the genius creative being that I am, when I have the beauty of every season swirling within my mind, the urge to paint a new scene frequently overrides an existing project. I am both an author and an artist. I've frequently been called an "autist".

You sit in the living room of the household, patiently waiting. Your skill at waiting is unparalleled - no one has the iron will that you do. It's been years, you've been talking to your friends over the internet for a long, long time, but today is finally the day. You're finally here, in John Egbert's household, and you couldn't be happier. You feel a blush rising in your usually stoic face, as the blue eyes you've grown to love melt your soul, and only serve as a reminder as to why it is you came here in the first place.

Today is the day that you're going to fuck John's grandma. Jane is underrated as a character, you've thought that ever since finishing Homestuck over two years ago, and you decided long ago that she needs more love. You, Dave Strider, are going to show Jane what true romance means.

Wait, shit, I can't do this. I said it ended in tragedy. Fuck. Goddamn. I might need a few months to write my way out of this.

**Author's Note:**

> You consider what ramifications of commenting on such a confusing fic could have on the actual plot, and I consider what end notes actually mean when the author of a work never quite stops narrating.


End file.
